


Maybe Tomorrow (or 5 Stages of Grief : Anger, 30 Hours)

by Flyleaf02



Series: Character Development [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Communication, Character Development, Codependency, Dubious Consent, Emotional Constipation, Ideation of Suicide and Self-Harm, M/M, Mentions of The Cage and Hell, More Like a Very Unhealthy Relationship, No Smut, No Soulless Sam Winchester, Non-Consensual Elements, Not Canon Compliant, Not between Sam and Dean, POV Sam Winchester, POV Third Person Limited, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Samifer - Freeform, Sexual Content, Stockholm Syndrome, Unreliable Narrator, Wincest - Freeform, anger issues, pre-Wincestiel, pre-sastiel, pre-wincest - Freeform, theyll end up there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 17:22:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14856963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flyleaf02/pseuds/Flyleaf02
Summary: Dean's avoiding his gaze, staring unseeing at the empty parking lot out the window. The atmosphere isn't tensed, yet it feels crooked like everything else. It feels easy, like it's always been. Like nothing changed in all those years on the road. Like Sam’s still just Sam and not an Abomination. And Lucifer is just an idea and not a dirty blond hair asshole in his late thirties living on in his dreams like a parasite with a smarmy smile.





	Maybe Tomorrow (or 5 Stages of Grief : Anger, 30 Hours)

**Author's Note:**

> _Some scars don't hurt. Some scars are numb. Some scars rid you of the capacity to feel anything ever again._  
>  —Joyce Rachelle
> 
>  _I have a right to my anger, and I don't want anybody telling me I shouldn't be, that it's not nice to be, and that something's wrong with me because I get angry. ___  
> —Maxine Waters  
> [Strange Dance by Alexandr Misko](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aDBG9O9Swd8)  
> [Summer Time by Michael Ortega](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q3FIgbEwK3k)  
> [Take It All Away by Red](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iAHCsyOb3Rc)  
> [Suicide Letter by KN SoulBeatz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_1BJEd8UdDM)  
> [Tomorrow by Bensound](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=osg9PmkfTB0)

When the wall fell Castiel took away the agony leaving only the bliss.

x

 **“Sammy…” A drawling voice with a hint of fondness. Warm hands cradling his face, fingers smoothing away the lines of his forehead, of his temples, the corner of his eyes. It’s comforting, it’s soothing the searing burn under his skin, put there by the same hands worshipping him, and Sam doesn’t want him to stop. If he’s going to be writhing in agony on this hard frozen concrete river forever, he’s going to revel in the good when offered, no matter how wrong it feels. His blood is cold, his skin, prickling with the shooting bursts of adrenaline in his chest. It’s wrong.** **_Wrong._ ** **Wrong, wrong… But his mind is numbed out, welcomed emptiness, and he nuzzles at the palm on his right cheek. “My sweet Sammy, so special, all for me.”**

**All for him.**

Sam starts, gasping in the smothering hotness of his pillow. Sweat clings to his forehead, at the strands of hair plastered to his neck, to his armpits and the small of his back. The sheets reek of cheap soap, fear and despair, and stick to his damp skin. His head is throbbing in a tight band around his skull and he feels like he can’t breathe. It’s dark out, the only sound, a low hum coming from the far corner of the room where the crappy air conditioning is under the window. Sam kicks the sheet away and rolls over to the edge of the bed, half-falling off. His legs are weak and shaky, and Dean groans in his sleep in the other bed, shapeless silhouette moving in the dark but Sam couldn’t care less about waking him up. _I’m not his._

_I’m not his!_

He can still feel Lucifer’s hands on his face, and it makes him sick.

Sam rushes to the bathroom. He’s throwing up his guts before his knees hit the tiled floor in front of the toilet. The bedsprings creak through the thin paper wall, and he knows Dean’s been awakened by all the noise he’s making. He knows Dean’s listening but Dean never gets up to check on him. Never did. The man can kill the monsters hiding in the closet, he can deal his soul to a crossroad demon so his little brother can keep on living, he can drag Sam out of any hole they’ve dug themselves into, he can fix up the Impala, suture wounds and yank a dislocated shoulder back in its socket but he can’t deal with Sam’s panic attacks. Because that’s not something his two hands can make better. And it’s alright, it really is, it is, it should be. _It should be._ A white-hot rush of anger turns into more retching and Sam coughs out a thick stream of yellow bile.

His mind is whirling, and Sam forces himself to breathe. _Just breathe. It’s alright, everything’s alright, you’ll be alright._ Blood rushes in his ears, he feels light-headed and there’s fuzzy spots in his field of vision that just won’t go away. He flushes the toilet. His breathing is labored, wheezing, and when he stands up on two feets, he thinks for a second that he won’t be able to make it to the mini-fridge.

Dean is curled up on his side, right arm stuffed under the pillow his head is laying on, pretending to still be asleep and Sam wants to tear his sheets from the bed and throw them out the dirty window of yet another — _fucking nasty side-of-the-road motel, someone needs to torch this place down_ _—_ instead he bends over and opens the inside panel to the freezer and takes out the lonely ice pack on the shelf.

The t-shirt clings wetly to his skin when he pulls at the hem of it to cradle the thing to his chest and his hammering heart. It stings, quickly bothering on painful before his fingers and chest numb enough to dull and stop registering the bite. He should go back to the bathroom but he can’t move from his hunched position. He’s trembling so much his slippery hand can’t get a good grip on the top of the mini-fridge to lean on.

It’s not Dean’s fault, none of this is. His one-hundred-and-twenty years in Hell, Lucifer, Castiel taking away the bad but not the good, the dreams and the panic attacks. It’s not Castiel’s fault, it’s not Dean’s fault and Sam knows he shouldn’t make it his fault but his judgment is clouded, he's petty, and if he’s going to suffer through this alone while Dean pretends to be asleep Sam’s sure as hell going to make him watch.

_I'm not his..._

His chest is filled with ice but sensations are slowly coming back to his extremities as his heart slows down. Warmth spreads through his stiff fingers, even those holding onto the ice pack, it’s slightly jarring and his shallow pants turns to deeper breaths. His face warms and an heavy weight falls on him, his shoulders and his drooping eyelids. He’s swaying lightly and Sam knows the comforting sting of the ice pack is lulling him back to sleep as he stands there, bare toes digging in the ratty carpet. Elusive visions of perfect clear stalactites and smooth frozen plans of ice brushes his consciousness, never quite reaching it and he feels warm soft hands on his face again, cajoling, promising.

**“Let me make you feel good. I can make it good. So good you’ll forget the bad. You’re perfect, Sammy, so perfect… I could have given you the world. Oh, Sammy…”**

His eyes are closed, and Sam forces them open, _—_ _I’m not yours_ _—_ his long legs akin to lead as he drags his feet back across the room and snuggles under the sheet, pulling it high over his loose pliant frame cradling the ice pack to his heart.

He’s sinking.

**“I’ll make it good, I promise.”**

The icepack is disgustingly yielding and tepid when he wakes up to the sound of Dean walking back into the room, take-out bags in hands. The sun is unforgiving through the flimsy window and Sam can see that the yellow paint on the wall by the headboard is peeling in large flakes. It's the color of the rancid gastric acid he was throwing up last night, and Sam rolls away from it. The icepack falls from his t-shirt, squishy thing, it makes his skin crawl and he swipes it to the floor. It lands in a soft thud.

Dean looks up, his face strategically neutral.

“Breakfast. Bought you fruits, you rabbit. Come eat.” Sam groans in response. He feels out of place, crooked and bent at all the wrong angles. And Dean going out of his way to buy him a fruit salad instead of greasy pancakes is all the acknowledgement he's going to get. He sits up, rubs the heels of his palms to his eyes and breathes slowly in then out. _You're alright._ He lets go and rubs at his shoulder and upper arm for a few seconds. _You're alright._

The food doesn't taste much like anything. It still tastes better than pancakes.

Dean's avoiding his gaze, staring unseeing at the empty parking lot out the window. The atmosphere isn't tensed, yet it feels crooked like everything else. It feels easy, like it's always been. Like nothing changed in all those years on the road. Like Sam’s still just Sam and not an Abomination. And Lucifer is just an idea and not a dirty blond hair asshole in his late thirties living on in his dreams like a parasite with a smarmy smile.

Feeding and growing.

When did he even start throwing up? When did it get so bad? Withdrawn and lost in thoughts all day, when has it become so hard to focus?

Dean stuffs his fork into his mouth and Sam puts down his.

“I need a break.”

Dean turns to him mid chewing and the lines around his eyes crinkles, frowns. He stays silent for long enough that Sam fears he's just going to be brushed off. It happened before and it's a real possibility no matter what Dean's been privy to every other nights for the last few months. They don’t take breaks, Dean doesn’t take breaks. Dean's uncomfortable, his sharp green eyes hopping around, never on Sam’s face for too long and he's picking at his plate. His brother clears his throat. “How long?"

"I…” Sam swallows. “I don't know. At least two weeks.”

Dean puts down his fork and rubs both his palms over his face, then through his hair. “That bad? You alright?” He wants Sam to say yes, yes I'm alright, of course I'm alright, why wouldn't I be? But he can't. “No, I'm not. We both know I'm not.” This is the closest he's ever going to be from pointing fingers at Dean. _I know you were awake, you're always awake and you do squat. You can pretend but I know, and you know that I know._ This is the closest he's ever going to get from asking Dean to _—_ _help me, say something, anything, Dean, please…_

“Somewhere you wanna go?”

Anywhere to escape the cold. “The beach.”

Dean presses his lips together and stabs at his pancakes. He looks away, anywhere but him and Sam wants to grab him and force Dean to look at the broken image this world's made of him. _It’s unfair, don’t you see? I was fed demon blood, an infant, Dean, and already damned. I was an infant, Dean! You can’t blame me for being different, for not being like you, stop blaming me for not being you!_ He’s about to tell Dean to stop making his panties in a twist, to stop torturing himself it's not like Sam’s hoping for a miracle here, actual support, he's going to steal a car and _—_ when Dean sighs.

“Okay, Sammy, let's find a beach, you and me.”

His throat tightens and Dean glares at him like he wished he could sow his mouth shut for good as soon as the words slips out, “Thank you.” but he can't help it. He doesn't want to help it. He doesn't want to become jaded like Dean is. He still wants to feel, no matter how empty he does feel half the time. Just not Lucifer's hands soothing away the bone deep ache under his skin.

Not this anger, prowling and waiting in his veins.

His nose stings and Sam finds himself chewing on melon to keep the tightness from turning into sadness and tears. He forces himself to swallow and his throat has to give to accommodate the passage. The festering sludge in the pit of his stomach might not let up but at least he won't have to watch Dean close off and run away. Sam drinks the mix of orange and mango juice from the container and stands up. Pats Dean once on the shoulder, Dean glares harder but it's fine, everything's fine because Dean's still here. Dean's here and it's all he can ask for.

He grabs his duffel bag, rummages through it for clean clothes, flannel shirt and blue jeans, and distractingly gets his hand around the hilt of the demon blade wrapped up in a pair of briefs he's keeping at the bottom of it. Dean's not looking his way, and he palms at it, his brain refusing to acknowledge the movement and he lets go, _—maybe tomorrow—_ makes his way toward the bathroom to clean off the grime if not his mind.

He scrubs in the body wash a tad too forcefully, his skin shifting to a soft shade of red and he scrubs his face, his jaw, his temples, his cheeks too much, his skin tingles but he's fine. _You're fine, breathe, you're fine._ He holds onto his shoulder, rubs absently at it for a few seconds, and he rinses off under the stream, a tinge too hot, hair falling in his eyes but it feels good and his crisped muscles loosen up.

He dreams up of sand and waves, of salt. Of a comfortable hotel room with an actual bathtub, TV satellite and a balcony facing the sunset, and Sam lists off in his head all the reasons he's going to push to Dean so his brother lets him max out all their stolen credit cards and splurge for once in their shitty life. He dries off, the towel is old and rough on his skin but he scrubs harder, avoiding his reflexion in the fogged mirror before getting dressed. Castiel is seated at the table, staring up at a Dean who's ignoring the angel’s focused attention on him like usual and Sam smiles. It's genuine and wide, and Castiel smiles back.

Sometimes Sam thinks back to that fateful night, the wide span of wings on the barn’s walls and the angel's blank stony expression. The awkwardness in his body and his inability to mold this new vessel's facial expressions to reflect the faintest emotions _—_ _Sam Winchester. The boy with the demon blood._  Cas's smile for him is bright, a soft toothy thing that makes the lines around his eyes stand out, and God, time flies fast. “Hey, Cas."

"Good morning, Sam. Did you sleep well?”

Sam’s smile doesn’t falter, he takes the few steps separating him from the two men on Earth he’ll always fight for, brothers by blood, and faith, brothers nonetheless, and pulls himself a seat. “Hmm, yeah, I guess.” He says, and it’s not exactly a lie, he does feel rested. It’s a mask, not matter how he looks at it, it’s still just a mask he can’t take off if he wants to hide to the world the rotten parts of his soul he can’t shake off.

Dean shots him a glance but doesn’t comment.

“So what’s up, just checking on us, or is the world ending again?” Sam jokes and Cas tilts his head to the side, his sharp blue eyes permanently curious and inquiring.

“If the world is ending I have not been made aware of it."

"If we go off the grid for a few weeks, do you think the world’s gonna make it?” Dean snarks, drawing Castiel’s unyielding attention. Their gaze meets and Cas doesn’t blink in a way that still makes Dean obviously uncomfortable even after all these years. Like the angel can’t afford to not have his charge in his line of sight even for a fraction of a second in case he disappears. Cas furrows his brows, instantaneously losing his easy mood to that one question. Cas is thinking demons, and deals, and death, and Sam is about to tell Dean to spell out the why but the seraph speaks up first. “Dean, if you two get yourself killed again..."

"Wh _—_ no. A vacation, Cas. You know. Lazing around, naping, eating too much, sunburns and sand in places it’s not supposed to be able to reach. All that stuff.”

The angel’s posture stiffens, like he doesn’t believe Dean for one second, like he thinks it’s the biggest fucking lie he’s ever heard in his long, _long_ existence. Spider rain, actual live spiders falling from the sky? It happens in once in a while in Brazil but Dean taking a vacation? It doesn’t happen. Ever.

“At least allow me to help."

"No, Cas, really…"

"It was my idea.” Sam cuts him off, lounging back in the vaguely uncomfortable wooden chair, arms crossed over his chest, he thinks about the ice pack abandoned on the carpet and tries to forget about it.

The angel narrows his eyes at him, on edge.

“I was thinking Myrtle Beach, it’s a few hours off Charleston, South Carolina.”

They were in Griffin, Georgia. It’d be a six hours drive.

They could make it by late afternoon.

Dean’s tone falls into impatience as he says, “Isn’t that some upper class playground? The kind of place show-offs go to throw their money away buying bling-bling and overpriced food?"

"You don’t have to come, nobody’s forcing you if that’s such a chore putting those damn credit cards to good use for once. I can steal a car and go off by himself.” Sam counters with cutting bite. Screw the level-headed reasoning, the rational arguments he’s been about to feed Dean, his brother’s attitude is grinding on his frayed nerves and fragile equilibrium, and Dean averts his face, looks out the window _—even the fucking curtains are stained—_ scratching the nail of his thumb on the edge of the table with force and intent.

“Are you coming or not?"

"Sure, whatever.”

Ironically enough, the short spat and Dean’s begrudging attitude is what ends up convincing Castiel that they’re not lying. He still eyes them suspiciously for a few moments then sighs. “A vacation is a great idea. Take all the time you require to rest fully."

"Can’t you just say; have fun?” Dean rolls his eyes in exasperation but the smirk pulling at his plush lips tell otherwise.

“Have fun.” Cas replies sternly, a threat almost, and Sam can’t help but chuckle. Dean makes a hissing noise at them, still he's smiling now so everything's fine. _Everything's fine. Smile for Cas like you don't realize you can't smile for me anymore. Who cares, right? When was the last time you smiled for me? That you laughed with me? Everything's fine. Everything’s fine. Breathe, Sam, you’re alright._

Sam gets up and starts retrieving the few belongings laying around the room, not much. His and Dean's duffels are quickly packed, and Sam picks up the ice pack from the floor and throws it back into the freezer. Dean is checking up Myrtle Beach on his phone, Cas leaning close as they go through Google image and the first search results, mostly hotel recommendations.

Sam stands behind his brother, peeking over his shoulder as he circles through various 3-stars hotels. “This one. Sea Crest Oceanfront resort.” Sam reads outloud.

It's not going to solve his problems, it's an escape, a run forward, but at least he'll be able to throw up in an actual clean toilet for a few days. Sam doubts he'll even get a full week before Dean starts losing his damn mind out of boredom. It's not remotely funny yet Sam snorts.

“You sure, Sammy? It's not the most expensive one on the list, you know.” Dean mocks as Sam cleans up the last traces of their breakfast and moves to the door to throw the trash out, his boots quickly made work of. “I want an ocean view.” He simply states and steps out.

The dumpster is out back and Sam knows he's angry for no reasons. He's angry at Dean for being himself _—for acting like an insensitive ass, say it—_ he's angry at himself for being angry. He's angry at the world. _I'm angry._ The dumpster closes in a loud clash of aluminum and Sam can't breathe for a couple inhales. _I'm so angry._ The sun is already beating down and hot on his neck, the sky a sharp blue that reminds him of Castiel's eyes, no clouds, no doubts, immovable image of eternal fate. Not in God, not in Heaven, but in Dean. Cas believes in Dean, and Dean used to believe in him. _Cas, I'm angry._

 _All the time. I'm so angry and I don't know how to live with it. I don't know how to keep on living. I don't know…_ Tears prickle at the corner of his eyes. Nobody to see them except for the sky. _Cas... I don't know how to keep on_ living _. I don't know!_

He just feels empty.

Trees, vegetation. Sam wonders what's in those woods. If there's deers and elks, and then he stops thinking about it because it doesn't matter, nothing really does. Dean is loading the duffels in the backseat of the Impala by the time he gets back, Castiel standing at his sides like his guardian angel. That Dean can acknowledge it or not, Castiel is his angel, always has been. Will be beyond death and time, and the end of all known universes because Cas is his in all the ways that matter. Fate.

Dean turns, keys to the room in hand, and sees Sam rounding the corner.

“Got lost or what? I'll go check out, be right back.”

He nods in acknowledgement and Dean strolls off. Sam steps up to the Impala’s trunk, avoiding Castiel and making his way around toward the passenger seat.

Steps driven by intent follow him and when he looks back he gets a face full of blue eyes, piercing through him, at his very soul and Sam thinks he's going to say something, he can't not say something, it's Cas. Awkward Cas, direct Cas, hurtful Cas. He's going to say something that'll make him feel like an idiot, ashamed and guilty, it's not going to be purposeful but he's still going to because it's Cas, expect he's not. Cas squeezes his large shoulders in strong hands and draws him forward in a stiff hug. He pats his back like Dean would, and Sam realizes numbly that Cas _is_ emulating Dean.

He's still grateful and lets himself be embraced. It's tighter than Dean's hug would be, more frightened and desperate... It's Dean hugging him every time he came back from the dead. A cool rush like a waterfall washes over him and Sam's not sure why Cas is trying to heal him. It's not going to fix the mess in his mind but the sentiment, Cas's desire to soothe his pain and bone deep ache, a force of nature not to be reckoned with, still reaches his battered soul and Sam feels choked up. _Thank you for caring._

 _“_ Promise you'll pray. Pray for me and I'll come.”

Everywhere they touch, the cool sensation seeps through, fingers, arms, chest, back, it's not ice and Sam realizes that the room's locked off now and he won't get his ice pack back. _Thank you Cas, thank you…_

“Sam, promise me!” The angel's deep voice goes deeper, rumbling, _pleading_.

Cas draws back, both his hands moving from his back, up his shoulders to his jaw. Cas's thumbs rub at his temples once, like Dean’s would— and the water drips down his hair and neck. Sam forces his eyes open. Expression contorted in pain like he's actually important, like he might be as important to Cas as Sam knows Dean is, Cas pleads to him again.

“Promise me…"

"I promise.”

But he knows he’s not important. He’s still just Sam Winchester, the Boy with the demon blood. He’s still Sam Winchester, Boy king. Tainted and unworthy of an angel’s care, unworthy of those blue eyes, loving in a way only the purest beings can be, disinterested and genuine, and without ever asking in return.

“I’m there for you.”

A thumb brushes his cheekbone, smoothes down his eyebrow.

_We don’t deserve him._

The motel reception door opens and Sam moves away, suddenly aware of how loud the world is. His feet on the concrete, Dean’s absently giggling the Impala’s keys between his fingers, and the birds chirping, high-pitched and obnoxious.

He’s alone again, the cool soothing of the waterfall taken away, gone and Sam pulls open the passenger door, rocking the suspension as he drops down like a rock on the vinyl seat. It’s hot, and it sticks to his skin, he feels trapped too tight inside his own body, and he wonders if Cas feels the same inhabiting a vessel.

He’s alone.

He hears Dean saying his goodbyes to the seraph, and he finds the sound of his voice greeting. The driverside door opens. “...come by, okay?” Dean squeezes behind the steering wheels, fires up the ignition, and the radio comes on. Everything’s too bright, everything’s too hot, everything’s too loud. Sam rolls down his window and tries to relax as Dean drives off the parking lot.

He’s alone and angry, and more time goes on, more he feels like he’s drowning.

 ** _“In the days of my youth, I was told what it was to be a man. Now I've reached the age, I've tried to do all those things the best I can. No matter how I try, I find my way to do the same old jam.”_** How can Dean not be lonely? Cassie, Lisa and Ben, he hasn’t forgotten, Sam knows Dean can’t forget, he’s not the kind of guy who can just let go. Still, he eats and drinks, and drives like he has no care in the world. It’s a mask, it’s got to be, and maybe that’s the kind of mask Sam gives off himself when he can hardly live without Jess and Madison. **_“Good times, bad times, you know I had my share, when my woman left home with a yellow eyed man_** ** _—” (Good Times Bad Times by Led Zeppelin)_**

 _Brown_ eyed man. It’s brown eyed man.

Dean doesn’t strike up a conversation and neither does he.

When was the last time they actually had something to say to one another that was not hunting related? When was the last time they were able to enjoy a silent moment together that felt relaxing and not just _not tensed_ . It’s been so long Sam stops counting when he reaches Dean’s first demon deal because if he keeps thinking about it, he might open the door and jump off onto the highway hoping a semi-truck runs him over. _Try and fix this one, Dean. Might need a search rescue and a bucket to get all the parts back beforehand._ Sam has to bite his tongue not to laugh and God this is not funny. It’s not healthy.

Nothing about this is healthy, him and Dean, he’s always known.

Big brother, father, mother, Sam’s not sure which box Dean fits in. He’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the sound of Jump in the Fire by Metallica. **_“With_** ** _hell in my eyes and with death in my veins, the end is closing in, feeding on the minds of man and from their souls within—”_ ** Studingly ignoring Sam’s brooding despite the fact he’s probably able to hear his gears churning and creaking, and jamming from where he sits. Sam’s not sure when Dean was his big brother for the last time. Sometimes he just wants to deck him like he decked John the day he left for Stanford.

Broke the old man's nose.

He wants to leave, escape the Cage. Dean’s Cage. Because it might not be Lucifer’s Cage, but it’s still a Cage. Not being able to let his little brother die, and not being able to take no for an answer, it’s all the same thing at the end of the day. Dependency is still dependency. At least Lucifer would give back after he took away. Dean doesn’t give back, and perhaps it’s the most terrifying thing about it. He could live with this Cage if only Dean could fucking give back. A shoulder to cry on, how is that so much to ask for? _You want to keep me alive, Dean, but when I am, you can’t deal with the reality of it. You bring me back every damn time and expect that I’ll be alright, the_ kiddo _I’ve always been. You expect me to be able to sort the crap of our lives by myself, the same way you do. I’m not you._

_I’m not you, Dean!_

_You need me. How is it that every time I need you, you’re never there._

They cross over in South Carolina just after noon, and when Dean asks if he wants anything from the gas station, Sam doesn’t find it in himself to eat beef jerky again. He asks for water instead, and an ice pack. “What happened to the other one?"

"Forgot it in the freezer.”

Dean shots him an annoyed glance, and Sam is mature enough to not tell him to go fuck himself no matter how much he wants to. _Can’t you just buy the fucking ice pack and shut up, why can’t you do anything for me without twisting it into a chore? How much of a fucking burden am I to you? And yet you can't let me die. You stopped caring the first time I died. You couldn’t bear it, knowing it could happen again, that it_ would _happen again, you’ve been doing a job ever since. Wrapped yourself up in barbed wires so I could never reach you. Because caring hurts you so much it’s safer to be alone than to feel._

_It’s your job, keeping me safe. It’s all it is. No matter what that’s even supposed to mean nowadays._

High Voltage by AC/DC is playing now and Sam just wants to rip off the cassette player off the dashboard once and for all. They pass the exit to Augusta by the I-520 and continue down to Columbia on the I-20. A few trees, hills, mostly cars and pavement, nothing much to see and Sam thinks about the ice pack in the backseat and tries to forget about it.

The vinyl seat is still too warm, the rush of air doing nothing to help his discomfort yet after a moment, wide panes of clear ice creeps up his consciousness and he dozes off.

He comes to a few kilometers into Myrtle on the I-501.

His mouth is dry, his head is foggy and part of him is still surprised that Dean actually drove them to the beach like he said he would. The guilt immediately surges up. Of course he did, it’s Dean, God he’s such a self-centered asshole _—complaining and whining about nothing, Dean’s always taken care of you, what are you yapping about today? Are you that ungrateful to be alive? What's wrong with you?_ Sam clears his throat, stretches in his seat and reaches over to take a few gulp of warm water, it’s gross but it makes his tongue closer to actual human body part than sandpaper. He tries working out the crick in his neck, to no avail. His back hurts.

“We need swimsuits.”

Dean hums. “You hungry yet?"

"Not really."

"Let's check in then, go out, there's probably dozens of _boutiques_ ” the word in Dean's mouth sounds like an insult, gruff and scornful. “on the beach, and we'll eat somewhere afterwards. Sounds good?"

"Very.”

Dean turns his head toward him and Sam tries for a smile, it's weary, no trace of happiness in his heart for miles, and there's a tightness to Dean's jaw that can't hide how bad his worrying is getting, already it's eating at him.

“Thanks.”

_For bringing me here. For being here with me._

“No problem, Sammy.”

Sam doesn't tell Dean not to call him Sammy.

 

The resort is fourteen stories high, beige brick walls, and has the brightest front desk Sam's ever seen. All soft browns and crème tones, and clean. The place is so clean you could eat off the floors. It amply makes up for the knowing once over the suited up receptionist gives them and both their single duffel bag.

“A king?” The man asks and Sam can't bring himself to care. It's happened too often for it to be as revolting as it used to be. “Two queens.” Sam corrects, digging in his pocket for his wallet and stolen credit cards. “For two weeks."

"Of course.” The receptionist smirks and Sam ignores him, meanwhile Dean's glare could kill given the chance and an alibi.

He can't be much older than his mid-twenties Sam decides while the guy taps away at his keyboard. He asks for names and IDs; Dean hands him his real one, pointedly staring Sam down until he does the same — _for fuck’s sake Dean, he's just a kid, give him a break_ — and the kid’s dress shoes seem to shrink two sizes with how uncomfortable he gets the moment he realises they're brothers. Sam pays for the room, jaw set, and the kid hands him two keycards, a 100$ gift card for the bar thrown in. “Tenth floor, Sirs."

"Thanks.” Sam says, and it sounds like an apology.

Dean's smiling like the cat who got the canary as they walk off, he stops by the elevator and pushes the button to go up. Sam rolls his eyes. “That was not nice."

"So? Now we got free booze.

"Like we're actually paying for any of this.

"Buzz kill. It's the spirit that counts.”

Sam hisses but gives up. Waste of energy and time. Out of the two of them Dean’s the hunter. Born and raised. It’s all he’s always been. All he'll always be. You see an opportunity, you take it. Take the money and run. Dean taking a vacation? Believable compared to the odds of Sam being able to teach Dean some base civilian life ethics. Still, he’s here with Dean and there’s nowhere else in the world he’d prefer to be, so what does that say about him? Sam sniffs in disdain. _Forget the kid, you used to shack with Ruby and drink up her blood until the gums of your teeth started rotting into your goddamn mouth, and you’re the one talking about ethics. What a joke._

Crème walls here also and doors the softest shade of brown in existence; the tenth floor’s hallway is squeaky clean and it shouldn’t be as much of a wander as it is. Screw angels and a Paradise built off your fondest memories, that’s what Heaven should be, clean and stain free. And Dean. He's a few steps ahead and Sam finds himself staring at the back of his neck, his freckled skin and short dark hair, he swallows. Yeah, a Paradise with Dean by his side would be cool. Not that either of them were going to Heaven.

They stop in front of a neatly bolted metal ‘1009’ and Dean clears the way so Sam can swipe one of the keycard in the slot. They step into a kitchen, a real kitchen, the walls are an ugly variant of banana yellow that’s midway between powder detergent and pee but _there’s a fucking oven_ — so Sam stops caring about the walls and crosses the room in a few strides and enters the bedroom through a second door. He dumps his duffel bag on the dark checkered color carpet and makes his way toward the balcony. He realizes as he slides open the glass panel that he forgot to ask for a view of the ocean but the kid gave them one anyway, probably thanks to Dean’s passive-aggressive stunt, not that he’s ever going to admit it. If there’s one thing Dean doesn’t need it’s encouragement to act like an ass.

Water. So much of it, as far as the eye can see. Transparent liquid sloshing and smooth, salty water, and it's jarring not being able to see land. Only the ocean, scary beast humans have been swallowed by, lost to the world since the beginning of civilizations. There’s people on the beach, a little army of ants going around and about in colorful swimsuits. If Sam leans over the rail, he can see the hotel's pool and its artistically mismatched tiles, artificial and squared, and — _would it hurt reaching ground level?_

_Splat._

He's not sure what expression might have ghosted over his face but when he turns around Dean's an arm length away, his lips are pressed in a thin line and he looks like he's waiting for something. He doesn't seem to fathom what he's waiting for but he's waiting nonetheless and Sam's heart leaps into his throat. He smiles. “Come on, let's go, jerk.” He finds he doesn't have to fake his excitement, there's no joy in it though, merely an adrenaline fueled agitation and Dean buys it. Hook and plunger. He relaxes and a faint good-natured mocking smirk pulls at his lips. “Bitch.”

 _How can you not see through the act? Can you really not see I'm just a shell, rotten from the inside out or are you satisfied pretending for as long as I don't do anything stupid? I'll jump, Dean, I swear I will._ Sam crouches in front of his duffel bag and gets out the plastic bag from the gas station back in Laurel Lakes. _But maybe not today. Tomorrow, perhaps. I want a swim first._ The ice pack is squishy and disgusting and Sam stuffs it into the freezer before he can examine too closely what he's doing. His keycard goes in his wallet, and he hands Dean his, slipped in with the gift card. He'll enjoy the use of it way more than Sam ever will.

“You sure you don't want it?"

"Why, so I can drink my problems away?”

The dry jab is out before he can think it through and Dean grimaces. “Might do you some good.”

Sam's hand tenses on the doorknob.

He feels out of control, two seconds away from saying all sort of stuff he won't be able to take back, he's sober, and he already feels like spilling out his guts on Dean's lap as it is. Or he could drink himself into a stupor and if alcohol poisoning doesn't get him first, he might at least gather the courage to take a leap.

“You don't want to see me drunk right now.” He says darkly and shadows spreads through Dean's tired green eyes. _You couldn't handle the truth. Jess, Lucifer, same battle._

“So, flowers on your trunks? Legos? Oh, I know, Hello Kitty! I bet you'd look _magnifique_ in a speedo.” Sam forces out a chuckle and the corners to Dean's mouth twist, ugly and dangerous. “Cut the crap, you either talk or you don't. Don't start a conversation you won't finish.” He shoves his hand in Sam’s general direction. “ _And stop_ with the creepy mood swings, it's giving me whiplash!”

Sam's grip on the doorknob tightens, he feels his knuckles crick and grind and the rush of white-hot rage leaves him numb and overheated. Sam's nostrils flare and he takes a step forward. Dean straightens up, his eyes narrowed. Ready to take it to the battlefield and throw the first punch. “Careful, Dean. I'd say don't push for a conversation _you won't have."_

"I thought Cas rid you of that Hell crap. Fixed the problem for good!” Dean explodes and it only makes Sam angrier, he wonders if he’s been talking in his sleep. _So you knew I was dreaming about Hell, waking up in the middle of the night just to throw up my guts for half an hour and you said nothing?_ _Don’t you dare blame Cas. You_ wanted _me to be okay but you never bothered to_ fucking ask _! “_ Cas took the _pain_ but he didn't take all of it."

"What's that supposed to mean?” Dean spats.

_It means I’m done!_

“It _means_ Lucifer wasn't all bad and torture. For all it's worth, physical pain is not what messes you up the most. The guy might be the fucking Devil but—” _Don’t say it, he doesn’t want to hear it, he doesn't want to know because if he does then it's real._ “But _—_ But he _loved_ me, and wasn't afraid to _show it._ ”

_Unlike you!_

He can’t possibly have said that last part out loud, yet Dean’s expression contorts in pain like he’s been slapped across the face. Sam doesn’t feel lighter, he doesn’t feel better, he just feels ashamed, and dirty, and broken, the pieces so close to falling apart.

**A hand on his cheek. “I could have given you the world, Sammy… Everything you ever dreamed of, I could have made you happy, and cherished, and loved. I love you, Sammy. I still do. My perfect little Sammy, I love you.” A kiss. Warm lips. Thumbs rubbing at his jaw, his temples. “Perfect, so perfect, I love you.” Another kiss. The hands slid down his neck and around his shoulder, held close, so close, and Sam kisses back.**

The vase on the dresser goes flying, crashing to shards on the carpet and Sam jumps.

He flashes a grimace of pure disdain toward his big brother pacing like a caged animal over the mess he’s just made and pulls the door open. _Making this about you, really?_ “Get that cleaned-up you moron, I’m going swimming."

"Sam _—”_

The lock churns back in place behind him, and he hurries, breaking into a mild sprint to grab the elevator. Two middle aged-women hold it for him, and he nods, unable to fake a smile yet. It’s a beautiful day outside nonetheless, the sun’s closing in on the horizon but it won’t set for a few hours, and there’s so much to see, colors, people, people walking dogs, kids, there’s more kids that he expected. Small kids, older kids, and teenagers, and how old are these buildings anyway? He wonders if there’s museums he could visit, and an aquarium would be fun. Are there sharks in those waters? He hopes he sees an octopus but doubts it. Didn’t he read somewhere that they were native to the Pacific ocean?

He buys himself a cherry and chocolate ice cream.

He starts wondering when Cas is going to show up.

Dean has probably called him down by now. He could pray, tell the angel to stay out of it but Cas shouldn’t take the brunt of it because Dean’s an impulsive idiot. _He’s probably yelling at him right now, ordering him around like he’s a fucking misbehaving puppy and not a goddamn Angel-of-the-Lord, telling him to fix his mess. And Cas is probably letting him, too loyal and eager to tell him off. If he makes this Cas’s fault so help me..._

He roams the sidewalks for twenty more minutes, the stereotypical image of an awe-struck tourist before he walks across the kind of stores he’s been looking for farther from the beach that he presumed them to be.

The clerk is friendly and bubbly, and her bikini isn’t a few pieces of strings tied together in a cheap pretension of actually covering her breast when they could as well be displayed for all too feast on, she’s classy and he considers offering to take her out. He smiles instead. He picks out black trunks for Dean, the hawaiian ones would rub him in all the wrong ways and he ponders buying them to piss him off. He doesn’t feel like messing around with Dean though and the realisation is sadder than it should be as he pays for the pair of black trunks and his red ones. He also buys two black beach hats weaved from synthetic straw, two pairs of sunglasses, tacky beach towels and sunscreen.

He asks the clerk if he can use the changing rooms to get rid of the prison of his jeans. She laughs, clear singing sound, and unlocks the one nearest the front of the store for him. The red trunks gives off an odd look with the flannel and Sam’s thinking about buying that white t-shirt with the swirl of a watercolor sun on it when he hears a rush of feathers behind him. They barely fit the 10 feet squared space, all long limbs, muscles and tall. Cas reaches for his forehead and Sam grabs onto his wrist forcing his arm up and across his chest to his opposite shoulder, flinging the angel almost through the wall panel in the process. He’s hovering close, using his weight to pin him down and Castiel shots him a strange look, unblinking and angling his head up as the taller man stares him down.

“Do _not._ ” The words, a harsh whisper.

“Sam…"

"Is everything alright in there?”

Sam clears his throat. “Hmm, yeah. Sorry, I tripped.”

He thought he'd be able to handle the situation in a composed way but Cas wants to take on himself Sam's burden, again, no questions asked, selfless and righteous warrior of Heaven. _Hasn’t Cas done enough?_

_Is that all he is good for to you, Dean? A tool to fix our mess, get himself killed, and suffer. He’s your angel, Dean, and you don’t deserve him. You treat him like a weapon you can discard when you don’t need him anymore. Just like me. I’m alive so you don’t need me anymore. The only reason you keep me alive is your incapacity to manage failure. If you fail this job, you’re worth nothing. All you are is a job. You have nothing else. And you treat Cas the same way you treat yourself._

“Sam, let me fix my mistake."

_No, Cas. It’s not your fault, you shouldn’t have to fix this._

"No, Cas. There’s nothing to fix.” His breath catches. His eyes are watering and suddenly he’s not sure what he meant to say. _Breathe, Sam, you’re fine._

**Washed out blue eyes. The first hint of a beard.**

“Dean said…"

"I don’t care what Dean said.” His throat is tightening, and Cas’s confused expression turns to concern then fear. A tear then two rolls down his cheeks, his lower lip trembling and breathing doesn’t help. His heart feels like it’s going to explode, swelled too big with pain, and it hurts, it hurts so fucking much. He averts his face into the crook of his shoulder willing for it to pass. For the numbness to come back.

It stings. It fades.

_Breathe, Sam, you’re alright._

He lets go of Cas’s wrist.

He tries again, “You’ve done enough, you have nothing to blame yourself for, I’m fine."

"Sam…"

"I’m fine, Cas.” He scrubs his face dry with the heels of his palms, sniffs, and they both know it’s a blatant lie. “No, you’re not.” But he’s withdrawing, the moment has passed, and all he wants is a spot at the beach to lay on and doze off. He’s worn out. Chafed raw and inside-out. _Dean thinks he can make this disappear with a snap of fingers and not have to deal with it. Cas's fingers, to be exact._

He grabs his shopping bags, reaching for the doorknob. He sighs, and rubs Cas’s shoulder with his free hand. Quick jerky motion over before it started. “I don’t understand your decision. You’re in pain. I’m there for you. I can help. I can make you feel better."

"I know, Cas.”

Cas tilts his head, curious and confused, he knows he’s trying to grasp at missing threads and he narrows his eyes in frustration, nods stiffly, there’s a rush of feathers and he’s gone.

Sam doesn't buy the t-shirt.

 

Sand seeps between his naked toes, he pushes them further in, the towel a makeshift pillow under his head. Warm, colder the deeper he forces his foot, it flows like water. Water. How long would it take to drown? It'd be painful. And too easy for Dean to bring back. Jumping’s quicker. No fish to nibble at his swollen corpse either. How painful could being eaten by a shark be? That'd be hard to fix. _Good luck convincing the fucking shark to give my darm arm back, Dean._ _...are_ there _sharks here?_

He's applied on a thick layer of sunscreen and sand sticks to it in odd places. It's fine. He feels pleasantly loose, expect for the crick in his neck that never totally goes away. He's shielded his face with the straw hat and he feels warm.

**Warm lips.**

**So warm, how can he be so warm when this place is so glacial it devors the mere concept of warmth under the icy teeth of its maw.**

Sam feels warm, and if he closes his eyes hard enough he can feel the bumps and ridges of the river under his burning cheek.

**So warm…**

**Warm,** **w _arm_** **. So f** _ **uck**_ **ing**   **warm! Ug** ** _hnn_** **… pl** ** _ease_** **, oooh G—od…** **_Fuck_ ** **!**

Kids are screaming.

High-pitched fits of giggles.

When was the last time he laughed? Truly laughed. When was the last time _Dean_ laughed?

A weight falls in the sand beside him.

The crackle of a plastic bag.

“Brought you Chinese pasta. With the shrimps.”

Sam rips the hat off his face and blinks painfully against the blinding sun.

Dark hair, a strong jaw, tanned skin, and the curve of a shoulder. Otherworldly against the evening light. Dean shots him a glance, raises an eyebrow, gesturing toward the bag. Sam blinks again, and sits up slowly. Cas probably told him where he was. “Hmm. Thanks.”

His voice is scratchy and painful, white-hot knife slicing through his vocal cords as if he's been screaming himself hoarse for an eternity and then some. Phantom pain fading halfway through a water bottle thrown in with his dinner.

**“I can make it feel good.”**

“Where's Cas?” Sam rasps.

“On call.” Dean answers slowly, studying his brother's expression, sighs when only exhaustion stands out and scratches at his stubble, elbow propped up on his thigh. “I'm not letting Cas magically fix me.” Sam warns. Chinese food? That's a peace offering if he's ever seen one, Dean can't fool him. His brother lets his hand hang between his bent knees. He's fidgeting, digging his cladded foot into the sand up to the laces. “Why not?"

"Because I'll remember. I still remember, Dean. It's fogged and dull in a sort of two-dimensional way but I remember everything. It's locked up somewhere I can't reach, I can feel it's there but there's no words to describe it, no sensations, no tangibility. It's just _there_ like a slimy puppy-sized slug on my neck and it's horrible."

"So what now, huh?” Dean spats, digging harder, pilling up a small hill with his boot, rough as he grinds his teeth. “You prefer I sit back and watch you lose your mind again? You know I can't do that, Sammy."

"I'm not losing my mind."

"Right, you're not.” It’s dripping sarcasm, Dean shakes his head, his dry plush lips parted but the words aren’t coming, he turns his head the other way and Sam snorts. _It’s the elephant in the room, sucking out your air, walls closing in on you, yet you can’t even say it. You want this to disappear so you won’t have to acknowledge how fucked up your baby brother’s become._ He pulls the bag onto his lap and takes out chopsticks and one of two containers it holds. His is from a Chinese restaurant, name written in Kanjis he can’t read, and Dean’s is from A &W. _I might be fucked up but I’m not losing my mind._

“Got you stuff while I was out shopping for myself.” Reaching behind his back, he pushes his own purchases onto Dean’s side. His brother frowns in irritation, and Sam glares back, daring him to finally man up and say something, _anything._

Dean hisses, stiff movements and jerky motions as he stands up. "Fine, whatever."

The Chinese pasta do have shrimps in them and Sam doesn’t turn to watch his brother drag his feet to a changing cabin. It’s been so long since he’s eaten any kind of seafood, and he can’t find it in himself to be disappointed that peace offering or not, Dean is still just Dean. Given the choice between talking and running, Dean’s always going to make a run for it. Sam stopped hoping for it to change the day he decided to sign up for Stanford. If he had anyone else to talk to, it wouldn’t be such a big deal, as it turns out there’s only Dean because being locked up in an asylum once is already one too many, and he might not be disappointed but he is bitter.

Dean isn’t the problem though, Dean’s the same as he’s always been. Action speaks louder than words; it didn’t use to bother him and Dean didn’t suddenly become an asshole. He keeps him safe, fed and healthy, busy, and cared for, the problem is that _Sam_ changed.

**“You could confess to little old me your darkest, ugliest secrets and I’d still love you.”**

It’s not enough anymore and Sam doesn’t understand why.

The shrimps melt under his tongue.

A little girl’s being dragged off laughing by a german shepherd twice her size and he wonders if he’s ever going to get to have kids. _Why? So you can mess them up?_

Jess would have made a great mom.

The gruesome details of her death have dulled with the years. Flat and two dimensional, not unlike his memories of Hell. The fire, the blood, the stench, it's vivid still, scarred into his mind, body and soul, Azazel made sure of that, but the emotions attached to those horrors have lost their sharpness. Her death weighs heavy on his heart but it's not a lead prison anymore, more like a cage from which he can look through its iron bars.

His life was built on cages.

John's, Azazel's, Dean's, Lucifer's.

And he resents each and every one of them.

“Give me my damn burger, will you?”

The bag from the swimsuit store (what was its name?), now mostly empty apart for Sam and Dean's clothes and a solo beach towel, falls against his thigh in the sand, followed by a pair of dusty combat boots, bare toes and the begrudging groan of his brother as he sits down. He's shirtless, sunglasses and beach hat firmly in place. Sam swallows down on his mouthful of pasta, he knew black was the way to go. “Did you put sunscreen on?"

"I did, _mom._ ” Dean leans across, their shoulders brushing, and the take-out bag teared open and abandoned by his crossed legs gets dragged away in the sand creating a rivulet in its path. “Gimme that.” His brother grumbles impatiently. “Should’ve bought flip-flops.” Sam says, thoughtfully stabbing a chopstick in a shrimp, and Dean hums.

He's angry.

The lines around his clear green eyes, visible from this angle, emeralds and precious between the frame and the arm of the glasses, wrinkled and twisted in incomprehension. Powerless. Sam wants to reassure him. _Everything's fine. Stop worrying, okay? I'm alright._ But it's a lie and he doesn't know what else to say. He's not losing his mind but he doesn’t how to tell the truth. _Dean, I've been thinking about killing myself. Dean, look at me. Dean…_

_Dean, I'm sorry._

He understands, it's not fair. Putting this weight on him, forcing his brother to stick around and watch him fall apart, and close off. It's not anger, it's fear. _And yet you still can't bring yourself to say it. Dean…_

_Dean, Lucifer loved me._

_In his own twisted, sick way but he did._

_Can't you see? How it's eating at me. How do you deal with the fact that the freaking Devil loves you? What does it say about me, Dean? Messed up, fractured, abomination…_

_I'm tainted, Dean._

_I've always been._

He lays down, stretched out, an ache pulling at his limbs. Scratchy sand, dry and warm. He yawns, and drapes the hat back over his face. Breathing calm and regular. Sun borrowing under his skin. A soft breeze tickling at his neck, under his flannel. The sloshing and rippling of the waves. He's dozing off.

A large callous hand, familiar and rough, touches his wrist.

Squeezes.

**“Kissing you isn't as disgusting as I thought it would be, you humans are such animals. You taste good, it's… weird."**

**"Stop talking."**

**"Haven’t had enough?"**

**"Shut up."**

**"Ooh Sammy, trust me, I will.”**

The sun is setting, and Dean’s asleep. Close enough for his elbow to be shoved into Sam’s ribs, hot brand of body heat by his side. Comforting and soothing, and _odd._ Sam rolls away, straw hat sliding bottom up on the ground. The beach has cleared save for the random loner and couples watching the strokes of orange, red and mauve painting the horizon.

“Was your rest satisfactory, Sam?”

He startles. Sat at an angle behind him, trench coat, pressed black suit and blue eyes, Cas’s admiring the sunset. Sam smiles, pulling himself straight. “Hey, Cas."

"Did you know that the refraction of the Earth’s atmosphere makes it so that by the time you see the sun set, it’s already passed below the horizon?”

A brief silence.

“You know you can talk to me, do you?”

Cas’s voice is soft, patient and understanding, and everything Dean’s not. It’s ancient, ageless and eternally accepting, and Sam remembers why he used to pray. How he used to believe, kneeled by the foot of his bed as a kid, he'd join his palms and confess how much he hated hunting. How he hated watch Dean bleed, more scratched up and scarred by the age of eighteen than any young man had the right to be. Unable to let go. So hell bent on keeping up the family business, he’d lost sight of everything else in the darkness and the monsters under the bed. Lost sight of happiness and life.

_I hate him._

_And I love him, but I_ hate _him._

Tears spilled over his cheeks, hitched breath and sudden uncontrollable sobbing. Heart splitting in half and bleeding, and weeping.

_I hate him!_

Startled grunting, wide green eyes. All he can feel is Dean’s short hair and the skin of his neck against the tip of his nose, and strong arms, so tight, they hurt. _I hate you. I hate what you’ve become. I hate the cage you’ve put me in._

 _I hate how much I_ miss _him._

**“I love you."**

**"Don’t lie."**

**"You know I don’t lie, Sammy.  Love is… burdensome... How can anyone bare it?”**

A broken, shocked up whimper escapes his closed lips, and he’s trembling from head to toe, he’s trembling so violently, Dean’s the only thing that’s keeping him straight up. _I miss him, how can I miss him? Am I really so messed up as to miss the man who's tortured me for decades and tried to wipe out the entire human race?_ A wet substance’s trailing down his collarbone where his brother’s face is pressed up to his shoulder. Sam’s first reflex is still to tell him that everything’s fine, _but it’s not._ His breath hitches. “Sometimes he would grow bored of torturing me, and he would hold me—"

"Sam…"

"Tell me how he loved me. He would kiss me, and—"

"Sam, stop.”

Rationally, he knows this is Dean begging him to stop torturing himself, telling him that Sam spilling that stuff to him, that his breakdown is not fixing the problem, only making it worse because if you don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist. If you don’t cry, it never happened. But bitterly, baring himself to Dean, skinned alive, he feels rejected. He pulls away.

 _Why can’t you shut up? Why can’t you just hold me and pat my back, tell me I'm not broken, that everything’s going to be alright? Why do you have to fix it? Why can’t you let me cry, just this one damn time. Why can’t you tell me you love me when_ Lucifer _could?_

He stands up on wobbly feet, makes a quick work of the trash and belongings laying around before stumbling his way further from the shore and toward the hotel a few blocks up down the beach. He looks pale and dejected, bare footed and bloodshot eyes, and the kid who’s still working his shift at the front desk in the lobby shots him a weary glance. Tight lipped, he shifts his attention back and forth between him and Dean. His brother’s trailing a good ten steps behind not quite able to let Sam walk from him but not stopping him either as he figures he’s to blame but can’t quite figure out how yet.

They take the elevator in silence.

No matter where he looks, he can see Dean through the reflective surface of the walls. Head hanging, hands shoved in his trunk’s pockets. Staring down at the wooden floor, like it has the answer. Like it can tell him how to fix Sam because it’s the only thing that have any sort of importance in this lousy world.

_You still can’t tell me you love me._

Cas’s sitted on the bed nearest to the kitchen when they step in.

Shapeless form in the thickening darkness.

He’s the first one to talk. “Sam, you have to let me help you.” Sam drops all he’s holding carelessly onto one of the chairs around the two place table in the bedroom. The trash gets stuck between the wall and the arm of the chair, while clothes spills out of the second bag, cascading onto the carpet and over his boots.

“I don’t need to be _fixed_ .” He grits out. “There’s no hallucinations, no spacing out, no insomnia, no body shutting down on me. It’s just _me_ ,” His voice is raising, and breaking, and Dean’s drawn eyes look wet and shiny, but Sam can’t find it in himself to care. He turns his back on him and makes a beeline for the bathroom. “and my anger. I’m- I’m _grieving,_ okay. And what I need is for—”

_Someone to hold me, and be there, like Lucifer was—_

“What I _don’t_ need is to get _told off_ if I start crying! I’m screwed up and rotten all the way through but I’m not losing my mind. I just—” Tears are flowing again and he angrily rubs them off, swiping up the bridge of nose and under his eyes with his fingers. “I just need time."

"But you don’t have to. Why would you choose the pain you’re feeling—"

" _Because you can’t take this away from me!_ ”

 _You can’t take away the only person that’s ever seen my soul and loved me anyway. You can’t take the way his stormy gaze would look at me; confusion, wonder, fear, adoration, pure and simple adoration._ “Can’t take _what_ away exactly?” Dean asks, and it’s careful, infinitely so, like a ticking bomb five seconds aways from going off and Sam stares him down from over his shoulder through ugly tears, and snot, his teeth are aching with how much he’s clenching them. “You can’t take away the only person that’s ever looked at me, _took a good look at me_ , and still loved me for who I am because even you can’t do that, Dean.”

It was coming from the moment they walked into that hotel room for the first time that afternoon, yet he’s still taken by surprise when Dean forces him around and clocks him square in the jaw.

His head spin and he falls on his ass, disoriented and flailing. Dean’s 220 pounds of muscles land in his laps, knocking him against the bathroom’s doorframe and onto the ground, fists full on flannel. He jerks Sam off the floor before slamming him back down. “You—”

Sam slings his right arm around his brother’s neck, cutting him off, grasping onto his own forearm with his free one, pulling and forcing Dean to bend forward. Dean’s hands lets go of his clothes, and he scratches his left palm on the carpet, hits his other elbow in a muffled thud, catching himself either side of Sam’s head. Locked up high enough to the right so he doesn’t have the freedom to throw another punch or headbutt him.

“So the _fucking Devil_ loves you more than me, uhh?”

Blunt nails scramble for his bicep, sliding down to his shoulder as Dean pulls and trashes against the hold. “Let me go!” Sam’s heart is hammering, tears drying with the brusque surge of adrenaline and he’s not budging. Dean shoves his elbow inside the circle of Sam’s arms instead to use his collarbone as leverage, thumb digging in viciously. “Let me the _fuck_ go!” He chokes up on the last word, breath catching but Sam only holds onto him tighter.

He can’t let go. If he lets go now, if he steps down he fears Dean’s never going to understand. He just wants Dean to understand. “He used to tell me I was perfect, that nothing I could do or say would ever change that."

" _Of course_ you were perfect Sammy, you were his own personal _meatsuit_ , fit just for him! I bet he told you how lonely he was, misunderstood, he probably healed you when he was done with you, praised you and petted your fucking hair, played you right into his pocket when he realized torture wasn’t gonna cut it, that what you needed was a damn emotional connection. He manipulated you!É

"He did.” Sam admitted, voice low and flat. Blankly staring up at the ceiling. “But he never lied. He didn’t have to.”

**“Why did you do it?"**

**"Did what?"**

**"You tempted humanity, corrupted us… why?"**

**"The same reason you stopped fighting when I use you.”**

“Because I wanted to be loved.”

Dean tries to pull back, shaking and wriggling his upper body in short powerful bursts, like a wild pissed-off cat held by the scruff of his neck and trying to break free. The struggling stops abruptly and Dean deflates, curling up against the top of his skull, large hand cupping the back of his head. Words, a broken whisper, fragile. “You had me. I died for you."

"Yeah but the moment you realized I wouldn’t live forever, you pulled back so you could never be hurt that badly again and you left me alone. When was the last time you were actually happy to hang out with me? Last time you looked at me without a feeling of dread or resentment? Last time you hugged me and not because we almost died?”

 _Have you_ ever _told me that you love me?_

This time when Dean jerks away and tries to roll off, Sam lets him.

He misses the warmth of his brother’s body. The press of thigh on his hip, Dean’s naked chest crushing his under the weight. The heat soothing the pain, comforting his soul. Sam reaches for his own shoulder absentmindedly, arm wrapping around his own waist, squeezes once, twice. But it’s useless and empty so he lets go. Hand falling back by his side on the carpet.

Acidic, the sudden guilt and shame fester in the pit of his stomach, more than he can handle.

_You hurt him. You told him that Lucifer loved you more than he does, that dying wasn’t enough. That selling his soul for you and going to Hell wasn’t love. It’s not something you can take back, it’s out and it’s too late. There’s no coming back from that._

_No matter how true it is, how worth the truth is if you end up alone?_

He’s already alone.

“Come on, Sam.” Cas helps him up. He staggers, a hand massaging at the small of his back as it took the brunt of the fall. Dean walked off to the balcony, leaning over the rail on his elbows, hands messing his hair around as he compulsively runs his fingers through it. “You have to know that my brother is incapable of empathy and love.”

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? They’re wrong.

“You’re wrong. He is incapable of empathy, but love… How much do you know about your own history, Cas? Lucifer got sent to the Cage because he couldn’t share God’s love with humanity. It’s childish and it’s careless, and selfish but… Lucifer is so starved for love that he spent a century trying to learn how to love one of the creatures he despises so much just so he could be loved back.”

**“I love you. I don’t know how to love you. Please, stay with me. I just- I don’t want to be alone anymore."**

**"I can’t love you, I can’t just forget everything you did, you have to know that."**

**"...let’s make a deal. If you pretend to love me, I’ll pretend to be good.”**

_And maybe if we pretend for long enough…_

_I pitied him._

Cas is chewing at his bottom lip, at lost for words to make him understand what he thinks is right. And Dean has stopped running his fingers through his hair, he’s looking down, no doubt listening in on them, and — _how is this fair, Cas? Lucifer is just a lost child who hasn’t been taught better, Dean is so afraid of loving and losing me that he’s built this wall I can’t reach through, you lost your place in Heaven and for what, you got yourself killed, and here I am mourning the loss of a damn fantasy. How is anything fair, Cas?_

Castiel leans in, dry red-rimmed eyes and pinched lips, closes his arms around him.

_I’m angry._

“I know.”

 _Because I remember what he did to me. He tortured me, that goddamn self-satisfied smirk, I’d give a lot to rip it off his face myself. I’d give a lot to be able to do to him half of what he did to me. I hate him, and I pitied him. Sometimes I miss him so much I can’t breathe. I’m pathetic, sick and disgusting, messed up Abomina_ —

“You’re human.”

Blue eyes angled up, Cas steps back, squeezes his shoulders once. Tired, and ageless, the weight of humanity’s pain in the crooked corner of his lips that no matter how genuine, feels like the saddest smile Sam’s ever been given. It says _you’re forgiven_ ; it’s not enough, never will be and it’s already more that he deserves. It’s getting darker and darker, Dean’s back a mere suggestion outside, and Sam lets the angel manhandle him toward the nearest bed. His eyes sting with exhaustion, and it does not take convincing for him to lie down.

“Thank you, Cas."

"You’re welcome, Sam. Sleep.”

This mattress is a cloud stolen from the Heavens, payed for in souls to the crossroad demon who sealed the deal, and his eyes are already closed. He rolls over his side, pushing the foot drop to the carpet in a swipe of feet, pulls the neatly folded white comforter around himself and completely off the end of the bed in the process. Blanketed and cocooned —and chilly —, half his body still over the comforter instead of under it, he buries his face into the pillow, right arm wrapped around his middle section, holding onto himself uselessly.

Rigid footsteps trails away and toward the balcony, “Dean.” and after a pause, the glassdoor slides close.

Sam remembers about the ice pack in the freezer and tries to forget about it.

**“After all this time do you still believe this annoying brother of yours is going to get you out?” Lucifer is picking at his nails, lounging next to him, voice low and venomous. Sam can feel it rolling from him in waves, the rage, the hurt, the jealousy. “Dean’s not the type of man who just gives up, so yes.”**

**It’s not wise. Gauding him. Even less wise would be to lie. The Devil’s grace is prodding at him, searching and prowling, listening for secrets, any reason to jump and rip through his soul. The Devil does not lie, so neither does he. Lucifer hisses, ice cracks, deafening thunder Sam can feel resonate through his chest with intent and static electricity.**

**“I bet you’ll be happy to be rid of me.”**

**Anxiety. Sam wants to ask him if he can sense someone is tampering with the seals, if Dean** **_is_ ** **coming for him.**

**Sadness. Like a kid who doesn't understand why he’s being punished, knows he never will, but learned to accept it. It’s never easy. Seeing the lonely kid under the monster who craves his love with every fiber of his being. It’s never easy to roll over. It gets easier once the decision is made and followed through because if he's started it's over and done, he can't stop. Sam smooths his lips over Lucifer’s cheekbone. Drags down his mouth to chapped dry lips, stubble rough and normalized as he cradles the Devil’s jaw in his hand.**

**A sharp fling of Grace across his temple. Sam winces.**

**“Do not coddle me."**

**"I’m not. We both know I want out. If you’re gonna torture me over it, go ahead.**

**"I can and I will break you.”**

**Threatening rumble, coiling rabid snake around his neck. Sam groans and shoves the fallen angel to the ground, lips sealed in a crushing mash of teeth. Sam leans in, licks the flat of his tongue at Lucifer’s closed mouth, nuzzling and holding on tight as they sprawl together on the wide expenses of frozen river. Rage flares, Grace scratches at his skin, squeezes him so hard it draws blood. It plummets suddenly, and nothing is left but a despair so sharp, Sam’s heart breaks. Lucifer parts his lips, and he immediately feels it, cold —** **_so cold_ ** **— Grace seeping in. Filling him. Sam seals his open mouth to Lucifer’s, tips his head and drinks it in.**

**It burrows deep, so deep into the cracks of his soul, he starts trembling and shivering. Panting breaths as blissful tears slips down the bridge of his nose. It burns, so warm and bright, and full.**

**_Don’t leave me, don’t leave me—_ ** **fuck f** ** _uck_** **—** **_I love you, I’ll give you_ ** **everything,** **_please, don’t leave me_** **— nghn** ** _! Aaa_ h** ** _!_** **—** **_I love you._ **

“Sam.”

A loud broken whimper tears through him, and he starts awake. Heart hammering, he’s burning all over and he’s so close to coming, his balls are drawn up and tight, his thighs cramping. “Hey Sam, calm down, man, you’re having a nightmare.”

Soft, concerned whisper above him.

**“I need you.”**

A strong pair of arms wraps around him, drawing him up and into body heat, hairless sweaty chest, and scent of leather, and motor oil, and cheap soap— the orgasm reaps through him, and Sam’s finger digs so hard into Dean’s waist he’s going to leave fingerprint shaped marks. He can’t breathe and he has to bite on his bottom lips not to scream himself hoarse as he writhes helplessly. Semen pools in his trunks, thick, sticky, —and guilt and shame.

_Shit, this is… I just…_

He sags into his brother’s chest, all cut strings, and jelly. Trying to reign in his painting breaths. He blinks, vision blurry and blotchy against the darkness of the room, only the faint reflexion of the moon on miles and miles of ocean water to help fight it. He lolls his head back into Dean’s elbow and rubs a trembling uncoordinated palm over his crusty eyelids.

“You awake now?”

Dean’s hovering, large callous hand soothing Sam’s cold shoulder and collarbone all rough and sweet, and awkwardness, cradling him like the kid he used to be. Sam forces his eyes open again, too wide for a second as his field of vision finally clears and settles on Dean’s obscured sleep-drawn expression and heavy eyelids. Sam groans. “Yeah."

"What was that about?”

His brother’s voice sounds incertain, crooked, and Sam decides he can’t possibly not know. Merely hopes for a different answer than the one he knows is the truth. Dean is nothing if not obstinate though, bull-headed and single-minded when set on a goal, and he keeps rubbing up and down his little baby brother’s collarbone like he used to when Sam was eight and he woke up screaming surrounded by fire and burning houses. Stubbornly he ignores the growing tension, the creeping weirdness and Sam settles on a half-truth, “I was dreaming about Lucifer."

"Good or bad?”

Sam clears his throat. “The night Cas broke me out.” He says, neither other answers safe.

“And?”

He’s getting confused now. And... what? What does Dean want to know? It’s odd, last time they were this close was the day they both got their own separate room at Bobby’s when Dean hit fourteen and his puberty. Sam’s not sure he likes it. Not sure if he should like it. It seeps through his ruffled flannel shirt, body heat and familiar smooth planes of Dean's chest and if Dean starts running his hand through his hair, Sam might fall back asleep. The wetness in his trunks is starting to dry and shame hits him with a vengeance.

“Hmm, he was telling me that he loved me, not to leave him, that he needed me."

"Do you… Do you actually believe that stuff?” Dean's tone is dark and stretched thin but Sam can't find it in himself to lie. “I do. Doesn’t excuse anything he did to me, or everyone else.”

The corner of Dean’s lips pull down and his jaw tightens for a second before he calms down. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows thickly, “No, it doesn’t.” He cares, so obviously cares, with everything he has, he is and is not, it makes all that is soft in Sam’s ribcage twist and hurt, and all this anger seems so stupid and childish now, _God Dean—_

“I’m sorry for what I said to you. It was unfair and uncalled for."

"It’s okay. It’s all forgotten, Sammy.”

 _If it was all forgotten, you wouldn’t be sitting in this bed in the middle of the night, petting me and holding me meanwhile suspecting I just came down my pants from you hugging me._ “No, it’s not. It’s not okay. You’re a good man, Dean. I know you love me. Sometimes I forget but I know."

"’s just a bad day, okay. Don’t worry about it.”

Dean’s hand comes up, thumb running comforting circles on his cheekbone, his temple as he cups his jaw. Sam closes his eyes, and suddenly he feels like crying again. Relief, and sadness, and longing that takes his breath away. He swallows around it, not sure why. He hopes his brother doesn’t stop. He hears Dean snort derisively and sniff as his hand trails up into his hair. Long messy hair Dean likes to threaten he's going to corner him and buzz off one day but never will. The admission is raw and gruff, and nothing Sam didn’t already know, when it comes out, “I don’t know how to help you when you’re like this, it’s killing me."

"You are… Helping.”

A hiss. “By giving up and letting you wallow in your pain, yeah right.”

_By holding me and talking me through it. That’s all I ever wanted._

“I should be telling your ass to stop being stupid, not pet your damn hair like you’re five.”

How far can he push before Dean runs? He slowly breathes in then out, leans his head further into Dean’s caring touch. Deepening breaths, and loose limbs. As long as he can ignore the grossness of his crotch and the sick suppering miasma it stirs in his stomach, it’s comforting. Peaceful. Short nails scratching at his scalp.

“Haven’t felt this calm in months, I’d say petting my hair’s pretty solid as far as fixing it goes."

"It’s not funny, Sam."

"Wasn’t supposed to be.”

The words falls dry and flat. Dean withdraws his hand, skirts down, closed fist grabbing for a handful of flannel, rocking Sam back and forth once, twice— until he’s forced to acknowledge him and open his eyes. Hazel meets green, and it’s not peaceful anymore, it’s sour and predictable, and like it’s always been.

“I can’t. I can’t sit back and watch."

"Then don’t.” There’s no anger to Sam’s voice, merely heavy acceptance, and he rolls off the circle of his brother’s arms and onto his side. He draws the pillow back under his head, nuzzles at the synthetic and plain smelling tissue. _You're alright, it's not a big deal, it's Dean, he loves you, it's enough, it's got to be. You can't expect him to change for your selfish needs, it wouldn't be fair to him, and it wouldn't be fair to you._

“Don't try and guilt-trip me."

"I was not trying to!” Sam barks back, scowling into the comforter, still half tangled underneath him and around his waist. Dean gets off the mattress, stomping off to round the bed, coming to stand in Sam's space, obnoxious and right in his face. “But if you think that's what I'm doing then sure. Why are you pissed I want to deal with this like a goddamn adult?"

"It’s Lucifer we're talking about, you shouldn't have to deal with it in the first place."

"I’ve done it before. Mom, Jess, John, Madison… it's the same thing."

"No, it's not!”

The sudden outburst makes him jump. Throwing off the comforter like he's been bitten by a particularly nasty dog he didn't manage to spot in time, Sam jerks himself up right and moves his feet to the floor. Dean is so close, Sam's left heel crushes and slips off his brother's toes. Too many flitting emotions in those green orbs to grapple one.

“Yes, it is! It's the same process! Shock, denial, anger—"

"Lucifer is neither mom or dad, or dead for that matter, and he’s certainly _not_ Jess!

"I slept with him!”

It’s definitely not what he meant to say but it’s out before he can take it back, and Dean blanches. Face contorted in horror and something more vicious and painful that Sam can’t pinpoint, his previously crossed arms falling back by his sides limply. They should stop, _he_ should stop but it’s too late, they either come back from this or they don’t, but they’ve crossed the line the moment he told Dean he wasn’t enough. “He fed me his Grace, and I went down on my knees more than once, he _loved_ me, so tell me again how different from an actual relationship this really was.”

 _And it’s the truth, isn’t it? The cold harsh truth._ It took years, decades but more time went on, less joy and glee Lucifer would find in torturing him, favoring the laziness instead. Lay around, skin on skin, kiss and eventually—

**“You… Right, you've never done this before, have you?"**

**" _Of course not, you mud monkey_ ** **.”**

The first fifty years are for the most part blurred over, engulfing panes of opaque darkness with no respite, and always _there_ , inaccessible. Mangled bloody pieces of pain, and agony slowly whitening out into crooked fake domesticity, familiarized grey eyes, and tortured bliss until there's no blind spots left. Ten years, the last, crystal clear, and _wrong_.

Always wrong.

A bruising grip on his chin forces him to look up. Sam grinds his teeth in discomfort. He frowns, catching sight of Dean’s empty searching expression, and humid eyelashes. “Relationships are not built on torture, and whatever else he did to you down there."

"Healthy ones aren’t. A century is a long time, Dean. A lifetime by his side, and it wasn’t good by any means, but it wasn’t all bad. It was what it was. He saw who I was and loved me nonetheless when no one else would. I miss it, but it’s not love, not loyalty, not even gratitude, it just is. I’m not sure I can even feel most of the time, it just is. Like you would miss a disease now cured that used to define the very core of you were. Because without it, you suddenly feel imbalanced, and lost, and nothing is right, no matter how relieved you should feel to be free. I—”

_I feel empty where his Grace should be._

He can’t bring himself to finish that thought, and falls silent.

Dean doesn’t respond, lets him go to push his closed fist to his eye. A tear slips through before he can stop it and if he didn’t risk being rejected, Sam would stand up and hold him. Maybe just sit there, pull Dean closer and lay his head on his brother’s heart. As it is, when Dean takes a few steps back toward the bathroom for some privacy, Sam doesn’t stop him. The door closes behind him and Sam sighs. Rubs the heel of his palms over his face, runs his fingers through his hair, tucking it back behind his ears.

He stands up. The bags from earlier in the evening have been emptied, there’s a pile of dirty laundry in the corner by their duffel bags and he walks to it, removes his trunks and wipes off his crotch with the hem of it. _I really am broken, aren’t I? All sick and jagged pieces that don’t fit._ He throws the soiled swimsuit on the pile and slips on a clean pair of boxer briefs from his duffel. His skin feels overheated, and cold, a nameless itch he can’t scratch deep into the muscles as he rearranges the messy bedding to crawl back in bed away from the bathroom.

It’s late, probably late enough to be early. After the nap he took on the beach, he should feel wide awake and restless by now, but he doesn’t. In fact, he feels exhausted, warm and cocooned under the comforter like it’s not 95°F outside. He’s freezing and he hopes it’s only the air conditioning, somehow he doubts it. He realizes he’s dozing off when Dean flushes in the bathroom, turns off the headlight and steps out. Sam’s eyes are sealed shut, sticky and burning from exhaustion and part of him begs Dean to just go back to sleep.

A weight behind him dips Sam toward the center of the mattress.

A pause.

Then he feels a body, hot large presence filled with temporary unreigned overprotectiveness sneak close over the blanket and settle. Dean’s forehead presses to his neck, faint lonely connection, alleviating, and Sam sinks back against it, drifting off.

**“Do you hate me?”**

“Wake up, Princess. Cas’s here, we’re going out.”

Sam groans. “—time is it?"

"Breakfast time. Rise and shine, kiddo.”

He’s clammy under the comforter, sweaty and too thick skin he wishes for a second he could remove a layer of in this heat. He’ll need a shower before he can go. Thinks about the ice pack still in the freezer and tries to forget about it. It’s clear and bright, and Cas’s wearing his usual trench coat, seated at the table. He nods in Sam’s direction, blue eyes bottomless and forever gentle, and Sam mumbles back an acknowledgement. He finds himself on the balcony trying to catch the breeze. People are already out and about, and he leans forward, crossed arms on the rail, resting chin in his elbow as he looks down.

And maybe he'll jump, take the demon knife statched away in his duffel bag and slices through his flesh just to feel alive, maybe. Maybe tomorrow.

He still has to go for a swim.

x

In the end, when push came to shove it's Castiel who got him out.

**"I’ll always love you."**

**"I know."**

**Author's Note:**

> First actual SPN fic.
> 
> Spewed this out in the span of a week in a half which for me is nothing short of a miracle. As someone who has dealt with PTSD, harmful ideations and codependency, this was more my way to rant about my own anger than anything else. A carthasis of sorts. Especially the bitterness and the moment where Sam realizes that part of him just hates Dean no matter how much he feels like he needs him which hits very close to home. 
> 
> Also, I wanted to talk shit about Dean. Not sorry.
> 
> This story was essentially written as an inner monologue; biased, self-centered, obsessive and unreliable, weaved around an eventless day. Bad day type of thing. It's open to interpretation just how much Lucifer actually manipulated Sam or not, and at the end of the day, it's the whole point of it.
> 
> I don't think I'm going to write a sequel to this story. Maybe. Just don't wait on it because I might not. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you got some enjoyment out of this.


End file.
